


sea

by nikidon (avioxe)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioxe/pseuds/nikidon
Summary: He sees the boy one last time on the shore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i really need to find a beta reader tbH i can't live like this much longer

 

The ocean noise is louder on the shore when the wind carries the sound of the waves and the morning mist swallows the land, and it's a day like that when he meets the boy, a flash of red clothing and pale skin, fingers in the sea and face towards the sky.

Initially, he's curious: the descent to the rocky shore is steep, rugged—precarious, maybe, and not many brave the cliffs. There's a beach a few miles to the north that's far more popular and more easily accessible, but it's often crowdged and Leo dislikes it because of that. Maybe the boy does too, and that's why he comes here. Like he does. He's not sure, but he thinks so.

By the time he's neared the stranger enough to see the freckles on his cheeks the boy's discarded the red windbreaker and he realizes how slight the boy is; slender and petite, a kind of delicate grace that makes him think a little of femininity, of innocence, but there's something in the way he stands that says more than the curves of his wrists and the length of his arms that pulls at something in Leo's chest and makes him wonder a little more.

But as he takes another pace forward the person turns, and Leo sees his eyes widen in surprise (he hopes to himself that he didn't seem like some sort of predator, he really does) before the stranger smiles shyly and begins retreating towards the shore. It's not obvious, but he can tell there's concealed haste in the boy's step and he feels a sense of disappointment settle lightly in his chest as he thinks to himself, _next time_. It's irrational; the city numbers a dozen million residents sans tourists and the boy is a speck on the scape, but Leo allows himself to hope as he stares at the boy's back and thinks about the shape of his eyes when he smiled.

* * *

 He's come here, to this sprawling coastal city, three weeks every summer to visit his grandmother since he was seven, an ancient woman with eyes filled with fire and a raspy voice that he thinks could make the earth shake. Leo's mind is filled with watery colour, washed-out in his memory and faded with time, evenings roaming the city streets with his cousins and tasting ocean air at dawn, cliffs above his head and ocean around his ankles.

He's nineteen now, going on twenty: some things have changed and some have not.

The little section of the beach has been his for as long as he can remember, a kind of haven away from the city buzz, but he knows three weeks in the summertime isn't an eternal guarantee and that as much as the place is his it could be someone else's. Yet, the presence of someone else feels like a violation upon sacred ground in some ways and a call to adventure in others and the thought of that alone brings him back in the early morning in hopes to see the boy again, although he hasn't—so far.

(At least sometimes he sees footprints in the sand.)

Today, the ocean waves roll higher than before, sonorous, unforgiving, as the wind whips across the beach and hurls sand into his eyes. A storm's coming, he knows, so he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and holds his breath, stumbles away from the edge of the cliff. _The wind's strong if it can reach up here_ , Leo thinks as he tucks his hands into his pockets and lowers his head, glancing over his shoulder as he leaves the beach behind.

He doesn't get far before the sky opens.

* * *

_You're a mess_ , his grandmother tells him as he forces the door of the restaurant shut to the sound of the wildly jingling bell, and Leo shrugs and grins, carefree and amused. _Don't drip water_ , she calls after him as he pulls off his sweatshirt and runs his hands through his wet hair, and he laughs, reassures her, tells her not to worry.

 _The main waiter's out today_ , she adds. Leo begins pulling his hair into a loose ponytail, elastic between his teeth as he looks up to his grandmother through his eyelashes. He nods; he's seen his older cousins work, he's done it himself enough to know what to do.

 _Be ready by four_ , she says.

He comes down twelve minutes to four, starts setting the tables: yet, the restaurant really comes to life a while after six o'clock, after the earliest patrons have gotten drunk and the regular families begin to come in. At seven, the tourists begin to trickle through the door; at nine, the couples, hand-in-hand and starry-eyed; at eleven, the occasional stoner or two; by the time they close at one-thirty in the morning he's had enough liveliness (translation: drunks) for a few centuries and is utterly uninterested in anything remotely relative to moving, he feels, until his grandmother claps twice and he scrambles up from his seat at the table closest to the window and begins collecting dirty dishes.

 _Grandmother,_ he asks after a moment, balancing a stack of plates in one hand and clutching a fistful of forks in the other, _have you ever missed someone you haven't known?_

She sighs as she wipes her hands on her apron and takes the plates from him. _You're thinking strange things now, go to bed._

As he's headed for the stairs to the apartments above, though, his grandmother coughs loudly and he turns back, slightly alarmed to see her look at him, wary and a little bit wistful as she speaks. _Yes,_ she says _. Don't let it get the better of you._

Leo knows what she means—when he was younger his grandmother would recite stories on the back porch, ancient rocking chair creaking and the bated breath of nine grandchildren in the air. _As lovers, we're infinitely reborn. Yet, only the foolish will continue chasing into another life,_ she'd tell them, and the children would nod and whisper agreement.

 _They're just stories, grandmother_ , he replies, but he nods anyway. (Just in case.)

* * *

It's rained again overnight; when he wakes up, the windowsill is wet and the clear smell of the _calm-after-the-storm_ scent, earthen, calm, hangs in the air. The clock on the dresser reads _five forty-six_ , and the sun's out enough to cast damp, grey light on the street below.

Strangely enough, he doesn't feel very tired—there's no static buzz inside his head, no fatigue in his limbs, so he dresses and washes, leaves a note for his grandmother, and steals the slice of cake in the refrigerator marked _do not touch, Leo especially_ from his cousin and heads out the door to the jingle of the bell hung in the corner.

* * *

 This is the first time Leo's seen the boy since they met, he realizes, as he sits down next to him.

The boy doesn't say anything, eyes fixed on the ocean horizon as the waves roll in, and it's only when Leo clears his throat that he blinks, tilts his head with a rather confused expression, and gasps quietly before saying _oh, it's just you_. His nose and his cheeks are flushed with the early-morning chill, and he sits with his knees to his chest and his oversized windbreaker pulled up to his chin.

 _Yes, it's just me_ , he replies, and smiles, hoping he won't scare him away. The boy smiles back.

 _I remember seeing you_ , he whispers; his accent brushes the edges of his words, soft, faint, and Leo's pulse flutters for a moment. _But I don't know you. Do you know me?_

 _Maybe_ , Leo says, and tilts his head towards the sky. _I wonder if I did._ ( _We can, if you want to_ , Leo wants to say. He doesn't.)

He looks at the boy, he sees his face in the _calm-after-the-storm_ six a.m. light and he reaches out before he can stop himself, running a thumb over the freckles scattered over the boy's skin, cold to the touch. The gesture feels strangely familiar, a hint of recognition in his muscles and a twinge of nostalgia in his mind, but he knows, clear and concise, that he's never in his lifetime done this before.

 _An eyelash_ , he manages, voice cracking in his dry throat, and the boy nods and draws his knees a little closer to his chest, but there's a knowing glint in his eyes that Leo catches too—they both know it's not that, but it doesn't need to be said.

They sit in comfortable silence, listening to the ever-constant heartbeat of the sea.

* * *

_I'll walk you back to your hotel,_ he offers, hours later, as the boy begins to rise, brushing sand off his legs and arms and unzipping his windbreaker and he catches the glimpse of a room keycard in his pocket.

Leo watches him freeze for a moment before nodding slowly. _I would appreciate that_ , he says, and takes the hand Leo offers him.

He and the boy walk through blocks of city streets coming alive into the still morning air and through back alleys, past dimming streetlights and back to the hotel, a luxurious one that scrapes the clouds in the sky and puts even the industrial buildings in the city center to shame. _You're staying here?_ Leo asks, and he nods, a light blush on his face. _I guess I should go, then._

 _Wait_ , he says, all of a sudden, and suddenly Leo's hand is grasped by cold fingers in an iron grip and he yelps in surprise as he's pulled a little closer.

The boy's holding onto Leo's jacket, a pink flush across the bridge of his nose, and Leo thinks for a moment _I don't want to let you go._

 _Would you like to stay? For coffee? Or tea_? The boy asks, looking downwards with a hint of shyness, and although Leo's surprised at the boldness in the question he gladly says yes, and they walk up twelve flights of stairs and through a plush hallway into a room with a dark oak door and then boy untangles his hand from Leo's and looks to him curiously.

 _What_ _would_ _you_ _like?_ _Coffee_ _or_ _tea?_

 _Neither, just you,_ he says unexpectedly and now, oh _god_ , he's blushing too and he covers his face with his hand for a moment before he feels a cool, wavering touch on his wrist and his hand's pulled down.

The boy has to raise himself to tiptoe to press his mouth lightly to Leo's, knotting his pale hands in the fabric of his clothing to keep himself upright, and Leo kisses him right back in the glow of the early-morning sun, streaming through the glass panes on the far side of the room. He cups the boy's face when he draws back, euphorically light-headed, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears and the boy smiles, almost childlike yet far too coy at the same time, the edges of his lips quirking up before he pins Leo against the wall and loops an arm around his neck.

 _In another life, I must've known you,_ Leo pants out, watching the boy's expression.

 _So you say this is inevitable?_ He murmurs, tracing a line across suntanned cheeks and wrapping his fingers in Leo's hair.

 _Fate,_ Leo whispers as he pushes the boy down on the bed.

 _Only the foolish say so,_ the boy replies.

_And the hopeful, too._

They stop speaking after that, but neither needs words to continue.

(He savors the arch of the boy's back like a piece of fine art, the hint of rose that blooms at the tip of the boy's ears and the blush that floods vermilion down his swanlike neck.)

* * *

They lie in silence for some time afterwards, sheets tangled at their ankles and pillows strewn across the plush floor before the boy finally gets up, pulling a blanket onto his shoulders that shields his body as he walks over to the balcony and slides open the door.

The sound of the ocean and the city down below drifts in, and he turns back to Leo.

 _Best not to know each other's names, or else we'll dwell on something that could've been,_ the boy murmurs as he lies back down, drawing the sheets back over the length of the bed and picking up the pillows from the ground.

 _You're afraid to,_  Leo says.

 _Yes, I'm afraid to,_ he whispers, and tucks himself closer to Leo's chest.

_Why?_

_A second life should be lived differently than the first, rather than being spent chasing after ghosts. Don't you agree?_

* * *

A week passes. He sees him one last time on the shore with the wind carrying the sound of the waves, walking the winding path to the street above, a flash of red clothing and pale skin in the early-morning mist.

 _My name is Leo,_ he calls after him suddenly, his voice echoing up the cliff, and the boy turns around with sad smile.

_Well, Leo, I think it was for the best._

(He wonders to himself if it was just a fever dream as he watches the boy vanish up the cliff, and he thinks to himself, _summer's gone,_ with the taste of the boy's lips in his mouth and the shape of his eyes on his mind.)

**Author's Note:**

> this took me a really long time 2 write lmao but i think im pretty much satisfied
> 
> find me on tumblr !


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